Arriving at Leicester station, Anna was collected by a local patrol car and a driver. The driver would be on call and available to drive her when required. Langton had informed her in a barbed, throwaway manner that since the car was at her disposal, this time she should consider using it and not rely on local taxis.
She was dropped off at the small boutique at three o’clock. Mrs Kenworth ? a well-dressed woman in her fifties ? led Anna to a small back room.
‘Will this be all right?’ Mrs Kenworth asked nervously.
‘It’s fine,’ Anna said, putting down her briefcase.
Mrs Kenworth held out her arms for Anna’s jacket, which she placed neatly on a hanger behind the door. In a prominent position on a small desk there was a headshot of Beryl Villiers. Until then, Anna had only seen mug shots and mortuary pictures.
‘This is your daughter?’ she asked, rather unnecessarily. Anna was unprepared for how beautiful Beryl Villiers once was.
‘She used to do some modelling. I have more pictures.’
Mrs Kenworth opened a drawer in the desk and removed a large brown envelope containing eight colour photographs. Anna glanced through them. The photographs had been taken in a studio. Beryl seemed to be between eighteen and twenty years of age.
‘She’s lovely.’
‘From the time she was a little girl, she was always so confident and pretty.’
‘She took after you.’
‘Thank you.’ Anna noticed Mrs Kenworth’s eyes rapidly filling with tears and added quickly: ‘Did Beryl ever live at an address in Shallcotte Street, Swinton?’
‘I don’t know. Shallcotte Street?’
‘Yes. It was demolished fifteen years ago, so this would have been before then.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Though, to be honest, I couldn’t really tell you. From when she was seventeen, she moved around so much.’
‘When she left Leicester, did she give you an address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if Beryl ever knew someone called Anthony Duffy?’
‘I don’t recall that name.’
The doorbell pinged and Mrs Kenworth looked into the shop. She excused herself and went to serve the customer.
Anna sifted through the photographs. It didn’t yet make sense to her that such a lovely girl could become a prostitute.
‘Sorry about that,’ Mrs Kenworth said on her return. ‘Regular. She’s taken a couple of outfits to see which her daughter likes. She’s getting married.’
Mrs Kenworth reached for the coffee pot. The tray, with cups and biscuits, was already prepared.
‘You said she left home at seventeen. Why? Did you and your daughter have a falling out?’
‘She got in with a really bad bunch of girls. She was just sixteen. She had been getting good results at school. She was also really talented, said she wanted to be an actress.’
Mrs Kenworth continued talking as she poured the coffee. She had done everything possible to persuade her daughter to stay on in school, but she had refused; she had started work at a local health spa and began to train as a masseuse. ‘At first I got her a flat with two of her friends, not far from where we lived, so I could keep an eye on her. I paid the rent.’ Next thing, Beryl had left, without telling her mother her whereabouts. It turned out she had gone to Southport to be with someone she had met at the spa.
‘She turned up one Sunday, driving a new MG. She said she was living with this man, but she wouldn’t even tell me his name.’
Suddenly, Mrs Kenworth broke down.
‘I don’t honestly know why she wouldn’t let me into her life,’ she wept. ‘She insisted she just wanted to live her own way and without any interference from me. But I wasn’t interfering, I was concerned; she was only seventeen.’
‘What about Beryl’s father?’
Mrs Kenworth dried her eyes. She said that George Villiers, her first husband, had divorced her when Beryl was ten years old. The little girl had worshipped him. At first, Beryl had gone on weekend visits to see him, but after a few years he and his new girlfriend went to live in Canada and they had never heard from him again.
‘I met Alec six or seven years ago. He’s a wonderful, kind man. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’ Tears came splashing down her face again. She blew her nose, apologizing all the time for crying. ‘Sometimes I would get a phone call, always saying the same thing: life was wonderful, she was happy. She used to come home periodically, always in another flashy car, a different one. One time I said to her, why couldn’t I meet this man she was living with?’
Mrs Kenworth took a deep breath. Beryl had told her that she had left the man from Southport and was now with someone else, someone even better and much wealthier.
‘Did you find out the name of the new boyfriend?’
‘No. As ever, she was very secretive, but she was wearing expensive clothes and a big diamond ring; diamond earrings as well. She always wanted the best things, ever since she was a child. I was too weak with her. I’d give her whatever she wanted, just to keep the peace. She had a wild streak in her, a terrible temper.’
Anna checked her watch. She didn’t seem to be getting anywhere; certainly she was not getting the connection she hoped for.
‘It was drugs,’ Mrs Kenworth offered quietly. She poured more coffee and went on speaking in the same quiet voice.
Two or more years later, Beryl had turned up on the doorstep late one night. Her mother hadn’t heard from her, or seen her, in all that time. She was alarmed to see that Beryl had got very thin. ‘I put her to bed. She looked terrible, kept on saying, “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.” She was covered in bruises. She wouldn’t talk about it. All she’d say was that she had got herself into a bit of trouble. There were a lot of telephone calls, late at night. Then, once she was better, she started not coming home until morning.’
Mrs Kenworth swallowed. She just sat there for a moment, her eyes full of pain.
‘We had another terrible row. She was gone the following morning. Under her bed, I found hypodermic needles, drug things. It broke my heart. She was destroying herself.’
‘Did you know where she had gone? Did she leave an address, or contact number?’
‘No, she never did.’ An expression crossed the mother’s face, as if remembering something.
‘Manchester. That’s where she went, that time. Manchester. I found a phone number on a bit of torn paper. I called it. The woman that answered sounded drunk, or maybe she was drugged. I called a few times and the same woman always answered. Told me Beryl wasn’t there. She told me to stop calling.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I thought she was lying.’
‘Why?’
‘Call it mother’s intuition. I contacted the phone company. I thought they might give me the address. I was really worried about Beryl using drugs. They wouldn’t help. I went to the police, told them about Beryl, what I was worried about. I gave them the number.’
Anna spoke up. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the number?’
‘No. She came back. She was hysterical, shouting at me. She kicked at the front door. Said I was causing her a lot of trouble, that her friend had been visited by the police and it was all my fault. I said that I was worried about her, that I knew about the drugs.’
Tears started streaming down Mrs Kenworth’s face as she told Anna that Beryl had become like a stranger. She was abusive and violent. She warned her mother that she was not to call her friend, Kathleen, again. That if she did call, she would be getting her daughter into a lot of trouble.
‘From Kathleen?’
‘Yes. I said that she wasn’t much of a friend since she’d lied about not seeing her. Then she sort of collapsed crying and did the old “sorry” routine. I put her to bed and that’s when I saw her breasts. She’d had implants. She’d always had beautiful breasts. She was perfect. She could have done anything, been anything.’
Mrs Kenworth closed her eyes. ‘I know I was naive, but until then I’d never really considered that my
